


so little time and so much want

by annabeth_writes



Series: Season 8 Rewrite [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:53:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25081930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabeth_writes/pseuds/annabeth_writes
Summary: “Do I have to call you Lady Stark now?” she said, her voice quiet as a whisper on the wind.Sansa hid her gloved hands in the depths of her deep grey cloak, unsure of what to make of this near-stranger that stood before her. Taller than she had once been, yet not so tall as to reach Sansa’s height. Lithe and long-faced, wearing not furs but a cloak of mismatched fabrics cobbled together and sewn by an unpracticed hand. A smile threatened to tug at her lips. At least that had not changed.
Relationships: Arya Stark & Bran Stark, Arya Stark & Sansa Stark, Bran Stark & Sansa Stark, Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Series: Season 8 Rewrite [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1807105
Comments: 15
Kudos: 117





	so little time and so much want

**Author's Note:**

> I have decided to write some extra scenes that didn't quite fit into the main fic into little drabbles of their own, since the stand-alone "prologue" to the fic seemed to work pretty well.
> 
> This takes place between Chapter 1 and Chapter 2 of _don't let me go (hold me in your beating heart)_.
> 
> Title: So Little Time - Honeywater

As a restless sleeper, Sansa was used to waking well before the morning horn. So to jolt from unconsciousness to the sound of it felt quite disorienting, not that she had the time to dwell upon it. With a swimming head and a lurching stomach, Sansa barely managed to untangle herself from the furs upon her bed and dart for the chamber pot in the corner before the meager contents of her stomach made their reappearance. Clutching the sides of the pot with white-knuckled hands, Sansa remained hunched over until she was certain that it was done with only to waver on her feet as she straightened up to fetch a cup of water so that she could rinse her mouth of the sour taste of bile.  She found herself at the window, only realizing how truly unwell she felt when pressing her forehead to the cool glass pulled a sigh of relief from her lips. Sansa paid little mind to the distant sounds of the castle coming alive, letting her eyes slip closed as she lingered there for countless minutes, dwelling on the dreams that had plagued her mind through the night. Jon, his face twisted in pain. His anguished voice crying out her name. His blistered hands reaching out through the flames that burned him.

The sound of Alarra’s quiet knock on the outer chamber’s door was quite welcome as it distracted her from the remnants of such a horrible vision. Sansa stirred away from the window and crossed the room to pull on a dressing gown. She caught sight of her reflection in the small looking glass that sat upon her vanity as she tied the belt loose about her waist and realized that her cheeks were wet with tears that she never even knew had fallen.  Swiping them away quickly, Sansa moved through her chambers to unlatch the door, permitting Alarra within and making no attempt to hide the sickly pallor of her skin. The other woman would know that something was wrong as soon as she saw the state of the chamber pot. To pretend that she was well would only delay the inevitable and waste time. Sure enough, Alarra’s mouth tugged into a frown as soon as she set a tray of food upon a table near the hearth and saw that Sansa hadn’t even brushed her hair out of the plait she wore every night.

“Princess, are you unwell?” she asked, her eyes round and imploring. “Shall I fetch the maester?”

Sansa shook her head, not wanting to make any sort of fuss. Not only would it tip the tenuously balanced scales that the North teetered upon even now, but any sign of weakness would bring Lord Baelish directly to her side. He would offer any help that he could give and delight in the idea of calling the Northern lords together to discussing matters on her behalf, as an apparent faithful friend of House Stark. No, she could not betray the North that way. She could not betray  _ Jon _ that way, though he seemed less and less concerned with matters of the North with each day that passed with no letter from the south.

“It’s only a passing thing,” Sansa said dismissively, sitting primly at the table to pick at the food that she had no desire to eat.

As her stomach lurched even at the smallest of bites, Sansa thought better of trying to go about her day as normal. Though she could not afford to take any rest, for there was far too much to be done, she couldn’t allow anyone to see her gagging throughout the day. The whispers and rumors would reach an irreversible crescendo by midday. But nor could she remain shut away in her chambers. As she carefully sipped at a cup of water and considered the situation, a solution occurred to her almost immediately.

“You may carry along my request that Maester Wolkan deliver any important correspondence to the king’s solar,” she called out decidedly as Alarra shook out the day’s gown that Sansa had chosen the night before.

Even in Jon’s absence, that one room served as a refuge from even the most determined and ill-mannered of lords. They would not dare to burst in on the king’s own sister in the man’s private chamber. The most preferable aspect of Jon’s solar was that it was so isolated from the rest of the castle, at his own request, that Sansa knew she could make her way there with little chance of being spotted. There was a great benefit to knowing Winterfell better than almost anyone.

“And should anyone request an audience?” Alarra asked.

Feeling a sudden rush of annoyance at the mere thought of it, Sansa carefully patted a napkin over her lips before answering.

“If it is not a matter of life or death, they may air their complaints to the king’s most loyal companion,” she said perfunctorily, a small smile pulling at her lips. “I am sure that Ghost will give their concerns a very sober consideration.”

*****

Once Alarra laced her into a deep green gown with little flourish to the design, Sansa made her way through the castle without issue. She felt a pang deep in her chest as she stepped into Jon’s solar, where she had not dared go since he left for Dragonstone. Her guards remained dutifully at the door, nodding their understanding when she commanded that she not be disturbed by anyone but Brienne, Alarra, or Maester Wolkan unless it was an immediate situation that required her attention. Hopefully, such a command would keep the likes of Lord Baelish from disrupting her peace.

The maids had kept the solar quite clean without needing any instruction to do so. Sansa suspected that Jon’s chambers were given a similar treatment. Quite unlike the northern lords, the commonfolk needed no encouragement to remain faithful to their king. Sansa could only find relief in that fact, knowing that it was one front on which she did not have to fight. Making her way further into the room, she found herself standing beside Jon’s desk and staring down at the crown that sat in the very center of it.

She couldn’t help but reach out, brushing her fingers over the iron swords once she sank into the chair. The smith that created it did quite well with the design, right down the ancient runes of the Old Tongue that were edged into the metal. They spoke of the duty he had to the North and its people, reminding him of the vows he took before the heart tree each time he placed the crown upon his head. Though many had insisted upon, even amidst Jon’s protests, Sansa did not think that he needed it. He had the bearing of a king with or without the adornment.

Many could not say the same.

Pushing aside the crown, Sansa set herself to work . Reading new letters and rereading old ones. Penning responses to some and setting others aside for further contemplation. Skimming through an old tome from the time of Lord Roderick Stark, who governed the lands of the North during a longer winter than most. She even consulted notes from former maesters of Winterfell, whose journals must have been hidden away by Maester Luwin when the Greyjoy forces sacked Winterfell because Maester Wolkan happily handed them over to her weeks ago.

She found herself so deeply occupied with her work that her ill stomach was long since forgotten and she felt quite disconcerted when a firm knock came upon the door, pulling her focus away much to her chagrin. Crossing to the door, Sansa pulled it open with displeasure writ upon her face and found herself faced with no less than four penitent guards, rather than the two that she expected. She recognized the others as the guards of the gate, Brennard and Harrin, and could not help but wonder why they were not at their post.

Permitting them within, Sansa forced the men to wait until she was seated, her hands folded before her and her face arranged into a placid expression, before permitting them to speak with a single nod. They stumbled over their explanation, arguing half the time and trying her patience for all of it until she caught onto what they were trying to say. An imposter, they claimed. A common girl claiming to be kin to the king. To Sansa herself. They must have pardoned themselves a dozen times before mentioning names that gave her all that she needed to know about this supposed pretender.

“D-don’t trouble yourself over it, Your Highness,” one of the men stammered out, trying to reassure her with little color in his face. “We-we’ll find her.”

Sansa planted her hands upon the desk and rose to her feet.

“Don’t bother,” she said, gesturing for them to follow as she made her way towards the door, grabbing her cloak from the back of a chair as she passed it. “I know where to find her.”

Caring little for who saw her now, Sansa made her way outside and crossed the courtyard quickly. The guards seemed quite nervous to follow her, as if they expected that she’d toss them in a cell herself. Sansa merely instructed them to wait at the entrance to the crypts before making her way into the near darkness. The torches were already lit. She knew that they would be. The guards would not have followed her even if she hadn’t said a word. They knew that they did not belong in the resting place of all the Starks that came before.

Sansa made her way past tomb after tomb, finding little fear in this place that once terrified her to the bone. If she closed her eyes, she might remember her own shriek when Jon came from the shadows covered in flour, earning a cuff to the head from Arya when Bran began to cry.  _ Arya. _ Sansa found her just where she expected, straight-backed and arm to the tooth with her head tilted up towards the stone face of their father’s statue. Her dark hair was tied back in a manner similar to Jon, to their father, and Sansa knew that her eyes would look like theirs as well, though she couldn't see them through the darkness even when Arya turned her head to look her way.

“Do I have to call you Lady Stark now?” she said, her voice quiet as a whisper on the wind.

Sansa hid her gloved hands in the depths of her deep grey cloak, unsure of what to make of this near-stranger that stood before her. Taller than she had once been, yet not so tall as to reach Sansa’s height. Lithe and long-faced, wearing not furs but a cloak of mismatched fabrics cobbled together and sewn by an unpracticed hand. A smile threatened to tug at her lips. At least  that had not changed.

“Yes,” Sansa said, her voice clear and unshaken as it carried through the shadowy crypts.

If she were closer, she wondered if she might have seen Arya’s eyes narrow ever so slightly as they did when they were children. Such a sign almost always served as a warning of the ensuing argument. They stared at one another for a lengthy stretch of time. Sansa broke first, the carefully arranged look falling from her face as she seized her skirts from the ground and strode forward quickly. Arya let out a surprised puff of air as Sansa gathered her into an embrace, surprised by the softness of curves and womanhood that she felt beneath the layers that her sister wore.  No longer Arya Underfoot, who was all sharp elbows. Perhaps her sharp words still remained. Sansa looked forward to discovering that for herself. Arya hesitantly brought her arms around Sansa, as if she had forgotten what this felt like, and something fiercely sad bloomed within Sansa’s chest at the thought of it. It only made her hold Arya all the closer before permitting her some distance and allowing her to breathe again. They eyed each other, close enough to see the details of one another’s face.

“You shouldn’t have run from the guards,” Sansa scolded half-heartedly, a small smile upon her lips as she discreetly wiped a tear from the corner of her eye.

“I didn’t run,” Arya said, a note of petulance in her own voice before she remembered herself with a scoff. “You need better guards.”

Sansa could have laughed. She could have cried. She wanted nothing more than to clothe Arya in their colors and ask of all that she had seen. All that she had done. Where she had been. She felt her sister’s appraising eyes wandering every inch of her and fought the urge to fidget nervously. Stand before over a dozen frustrated lords with the solemn duty of placating them and keeping their faith in Jon, and she did not blink an eye. Stand before her sister, and she could not help but feel like a child again.

“It suits you, Lady Stark,” Arya said, though there was something odd in her voice that did not ring of approval, but rather uncertainty.

As if Arya was trying to delve deep beneath her skin and root out all that she was to discover  _ who  _ she was.

“Princess,” Sansa corrected her, an oddly mischievous feeling rising within her. “The title is yours to claim as well.”

Arya’s distaste showed in her eyes quite easily before it gave way to a bright hope.

“Jon left you in charge?’

An innocuous question. An obvious one. Certainly not one that should have made her flush to the roots of her hair, yet she did so anyway.

“He did,” Sansa said with a nod, glancing down at her hands as she wrung them together in a habit of her own making. “I hope that he returns soon.”

No, that was too much. Arya would be suspicious. Sansa couldn’t speak of him with such longing in her voice. For her sister, that is why she should wish for his return. They were so close as children. So different from Sansa’s relationship with Jon in the  _ before _ .

“I remember how happy he was to see me,” Sansa said, forcing brightness into her voice as she looked up again. “When he sees  _ you _ , his heart will probably stop.”

Arya’s face broke out into the first smile that Sansa had seen in years. Though it was somewhat restrained, much like her own, Sansa could see the real joy in her eyes. Relief swept through her. Perhaps he had not given herself away after all. She tilted her head away, hoping to keep from slipping up once more -- Arya’s appearance was rather jolting -- and her eyes fell upon the statue that loomed over them.

“It doesn’t look like him,” Arya said after a moment.

“We had to use Jon’s face as a reference,” Sansa said quietly, pressing her thumb into the center of her palm. “We could find no stonemason who ever saw him.”

They could not tear their eyes away. Though it was a poor likeness of their father, the statue was all that they had left of him, apart from his words that still lived in their minds and his blood that still stirred in their veins.

“They say you killed Joffrey,” Arya said out of nowhere, turning to face her.

Sansa blinked rapidly as his horrible purpling face flitted through her mind.

“I didn’t,” she said, shaking her head. “Sometimes I wish that I had but…”

There was no ending for the thought. Only remnants of her regret.

“Me too,” Arya admitted, tilting their head back towards their father just as Sansa turned to look at her. “I was angry when I found out someone else had done it. However long my list got, he was always first.”

“Your list?”

“Of people I’m going to kill.”

Arya held her gaze quite seriously for several moments. Sansa remembered it from their childhood. Arya would say something ridiculous, hold her gaze, and simply wait for the first of them to break. Sansa let out a breathy laugh, though she did not quite know why. Arya’s eyes crinkled at the corners as she grinned, something deep in her eyes that spoke of truths that Sansa did not want to know. Of games far more dangerous than the childhood ones they played. As she looked away from that telling gaze, her eyes fell upon something over Arya’s shoulder. A weathered carving. A melting candle. A feather.

“Arya,” she said, her own voice quiet as a whisper now as she looked upon the statue of Lyanna Stark. “There’s something that you need to know. Something about Jon.”

Her sister’s face grew somber and her eyes flashed with curiosity. As Sansa told the story as she knew it, she watched a myriad of emotions war upon her face. Disbelief. Wonder. Anger. Doubt. Sadness. Acceptance.

“How do you know?” Arya asked.

“That’s the other part,” Sansa said warily, wondering how to explain their brother. “Bran has returned to Winterfell as well.”

Arya’s relieved smile faded too quickly when she noticed that Sansa did not return it.

*****

“I thought you might go to King’s Landing,” Bran said, that horrible knowing  _ thing _ in his eyes.

“So did I,” Arya confessed as if she was a child caught at mischief once more.

Sansa’s frown deepened.

“Why would you go back there?” she asked.

Arya said nothing at all. Bran looked almost amused. Almost.

“Cersei’s on her list of names.”

Sansa’s breath hitched in her throat as Arya turned to give her a look that almost seemed guilty. No, not a game. Not a jest. Not something ridiculous.

A list.

“Who else is on your list?” she asked, equal parts wary and intrigued.

“Most of them are dead already.”

It would be months before they spoke of her list again.

*****

Weeks passed.

Frustrations brewed throughout the castle.

Conflict arose in all corners, including Sansa’s.

The days grew colder.

The cause behind her sickness became all the more clear.

Jon still did not write to her.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to hear what you think!


End file.
